A Dr. Salgado explained that they had attempted resuscitation for nearly half an hour.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vance,” he had said softly. “He didn’t respond.”
I was too shattered by grief to ask intelligent questions. But that fog began to clear during the wake.
Chloe had asked for a chair so she could sit close to her father’s face. My mother-in-law, Teresa, let her stay. Several aunts whispered among themselves that the poor girl was simply in severe shock.
But I knew my daughter.
When Chloe was frightened, she sobbed. When she didn’t understand something, she asked endless questions. That night, she was doing neither.
She was observing.
At 11:20 PM, I walked over to her. “Chloe, sweetheart, come with me for a minute.”
“No.”
“You need to rest.”
She stared closely at Mark’s face. “Daddy isn’t resting either.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer.
Moments later, I noticed a detail that suddenly made me recall our final moments at the clinic. Mark hadn’t been prepared by a standard funeral home as would normally happen. Marcus had insisted on moving him quickly because, according to him, Mark had always stated he wanted zero invasive procedures post-mortem. Marcus had also personally chosen a tiny, independent funeral home owned by an acquaintance of his.
Suddenly, that decision no longer felt like a thoughtful family gesture.
I pulled out my phone and checked a photo I had taken at the clinic when they let me say goodbye. In the photo, Mark’s wrist watch read 4:13 PM.
I looked at the watch still sitting on his wrist inside the casket. It read 11:37 PM.
It was still ticking.
It didn’t mean he was alive, of course. But it meant that nobody had properly prepped or stripped his body.
“Chloe,” I whispered, leaning down. “What did you see?”
My daughter brought her face inches from her father’s. “At first, I thought it was just my imagination.”
“What was?”
“His nose.”
My chest tightened. “Explain it to me, sweetie.”
